The Writer's Critic
by theblackspot
Summary: This is written totally tongueincheek without intention to offend anyone, but please feel free to be affronted and do let me know.


Disclaimer: If JKR could possibly publish more often and let the rest of us Muggles have her background notes, we wouldn't have to stoop to such levels of desperate imaginations.

THE WRITER'S CRITIC

"You can't write that, it does not make sense," said Snape, peering over my shoulder. "And that," pointing to a certain passage that I hoped he hadn't seen, "is pure nonsense. I am not an imbecile."

I sigh. This writing fan-fiction, with the main character present, was beginning to get me down. "It's just a story. Nothing serious. Why must you take everything to heart."

"I object to you portraying me in a manner that is unflattering." He sneered, making my heart turn over. "Nor do I understand the fascination you Muggles have with me."

"It's not unflattering," I say in a rebuking tone, usually reserved for the kids, "You usually get the girl. Most men would be flattered to be a woman's fantasy. And the fascination with you… come here…" I give him my best come-hither look, which makes him scowl and take a step back. "Relax, will you? Women like their men dark, brooding and completely unobtainable." And silent, I added to myself.

"Indeed?" he drawls, assessing me with his eyes. "But why do they get it so wrong all the time? I have never met a female remotely resembling any of those portrayed, but if I did…" A far-away look came into his eyes.

His eyebrows snap together, giving me a piercing look, that made me glad I was sitting down. My knees had certainly turned to jelly.

"All these women - too skinny. Thin - with pert breasts." He snorted with derision. "How can they think that? My boney body against another - sounds painful. And why do they all have long hair? I do not have a fetish in that direction."

"I've got long hair," I said in small voice. He was making me feel miserable, the greasy git.

"I do not have greasy hair," he bellowed, making me wince. "That is an ugly rumour put about by your fellow writers." He looked at my hair, taking in the wild grey strands peppering it, standing up in all directions. "You are just too lazy to have yours cut."

"Not all the writers have you down as greasy," I reply, ignoring the guilty memory of some of the stories I'd written. "I'm not lazy – just busy. I'll get it cut next week." I stick my tongue out at him.

"Ninety eight point six percent of the time, they are far too young. Young girls, in my experience, know nothing about sex, less about their bodies, and even less about how to please a man."

"Some of them have had previous experience." I try hard to defend us writers.

"Sluts, you mean?" He comes over and peers at my computer screen.

"No," I explain to him, slowly. "Most women, regardless of their age only see a twenty year old peering out from their mirror, and that includes me. Most of the writers know what they want, and what the men they have had sex with, want."

"Well it's all tosh. Why do you continue to write that rubbish? A woman who purports to be intelligent, writing romantic fiction about a made up character…" his delicious eyebrows raise themselves at me. "When you have tried to write a 'page turner', what do you get? A load of reviews asking what is going to happen next - that's what. You're too polite to them. Some of the reviews are getting longer than the story."

"Reviews are an author's lifeblood. It's like taking a bow at the end of a play, and receiving flowers." I'm not sure he understands it, but his humour seems to have reappeared.

"You don't have to reply to them all." He sounds smug.

"Yes, I do, it's polite, and how else could I keep tabs on what people are thinking?" I snap back at him.

"You could ask me," he said. The hurt in his voice, cuts me to the quick.

"I only post reviews on stories I have enjoyed. If the readers haven't enjoyed it, do you think I want to know? Saying that, sometimes there are stories which I have enjoyed, but just can't say anything..." My shrill voice subsides and I looked at him, drinking in his lean figure and large nose.

"I could write them for you," he offers.

"What! And what would you write? I "Dear Ms Gin and Tonic, If you actually read the preceding chapter, had a little more patience, and waited for the story to finish, the facts might even pierce your feeble brain." /I Oh, yes. I "P.S. If you read the books and retained the stories in your memory, you might possibly understand where I'm coming from." /I Thanks, but no thanks. Do you want me to totally alienate my readership?" I turn back to my screen, save the last paragraph, and proceed to shut the computer down.

"Coming to bed?" I ask. "French maid or Grandma?"

His eyes light up. "Grandma, tonight. Please."

I remove my ample figure upstairs to change, smiling to myself.


End file.
